


No Obstacle in Your Path

by ehonauta (banzai)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Biblical References, Dean can't have nice things, Desperately needed hugging, Drug Use, Epic lack of appropriate romantic cues, Friendship, M/M, Self-Medication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banzai/pseuds/ehonauta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If the path is bad, an obstruction is good." - Neil Forsyth, quoted in Elaine Pagels' The Origin of Satan. </p><p>Neither Cas nor Dean is very good at walking the right path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Obstacle in Your Path

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cymbalism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymbalism/gifts).



> Unbeta'd. Written as a gift for cymbalism for winning a very silly thing on tumblr.

One of the last spurts of Cas’ angelic mojo had been the creation of a… well, Cas called it his “blessed” garden, behind the cabin he’d claimed as his own. Plants that shouldn’t be able to live together even in the most carefully-tended greenhouse -- poppies, coca, peyote, cannabis, jimson weed, even some iboga and Cas alone knew what else -- ran wild and fruitful together, leaves and flowers and stems and spines twined together in a terrifying, fragrant riot. 

Most of the compound residents were too scared of accidentally smoking or eating something actually poisonous to attempt a raid on the garden, but everyone, even Dean, gave it a wide berth after the first brave, stupid soul tried to snag some pot from a plant that had grown too close to the fence. Cas, high on some homemade concoction that seemed to approximate cocaine, had discovered the man in mid-harvest and had unleashed a diminished but still terrifying version of his holy wrath. The would-be thief had survived only because someone had come running to Dean and Dean had intervened, knowing both that Cas was still strong enough to beat a man to death with his bare hands, and that Cas’ downward fucking spiral would only accelerate if he managed to do it.

Things settled into an uneasy status quo after that: Cas self-medicated into something approaching functional, and everyone pretended things were normal. 

When Cas propositioned Dean, they were both high on some weird concoction that was apparently sort of ayahuasca (whatever the fuck that was). 

“I’m glad you came to me, finally. There are properties in these flora that are genuinely helpful in finding one’s spiritual and emotional center.” 

“I’m not interested in my spirit, Cas. I just want--”

Cas’ smile was strained but fond. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I know what you want, Dean.”

“Sure, Cas. I’m here for your people skills.” 

“Don’t be flippant, Dean. It’s your birthday, the world is ending, and everyone you love is dead. Of course you want to escape.” 

Dean flinched hard. “Fuck, Cas, don’t pull your punches or anything.” 

The stare Cas fixed him with was piercing. “You came to me. I’m trying to give you what you want, as much as is in my power to give you. The faster you drink this” -- he handed over a large tumbler of something brown and cloudy -- “the faster you get what you want.” 

Hours later, Dean was wrung out, numb, and pleasantly floaty, like the first time he’d gotten tequila drunk on a full stomach. 

Cas had been talking, possibly for hours if the rasp to his already-gravely voice was any indication. 

“... and it’s not as if he’s special, really -- he’s not the oldest, he’s not the strongest, or at least he wasn’t, and it’s not like we weren’t all satans at some point or another”

Dean rolled over (how the hell had he ended up on the floor?) and stared at him in groggy disbelief. 

“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Lucifer. Weren’t you listening?”

“Obviously not. But what the fuck do you mean “we were all satan”?”

“Satans, Dean; I really despair of your lack of theological education, considering what you do -- or did, I suppose -- for a living.” 

“Yeah, thanks, kick me when I’m down. Love you too, man.” 

Cas’ face went stunned-still for a moment before he blinked and went on. “Satan isn’t a name. It’s not even a title -- well, I suppose it can be used that way, but mostly it’s just a descriptor. It means ‘adversary.’” 

“Sure, fine, whatever. Adversary, bad guy, what the fuck are you even talking about?” Dean might have gotten a little whiny at this point. 

“Not a ‘bad guy’ Dean,” (Dean winced at Cas’ eternally awkward finger-quotes) “an adversary. An opponent. An obstacle in the path.” 

“Stop with your Buddha shit, dude, if you are this fucking desperate to lecture me, just speak English like a normal person.” 

If Cas were a dog, his hackles would have risen. As it was, he stumble-lunged to loom over Dean where he lay on the worn rag rug. 

“I am telling you my truth if you would just listen for once in your life.” 

Dean blinked and put his hands up weakly in supplication. “Shit, Cas, fine, fine. I’m listening. But how the hell is an adversary not a bad guy?” 

Cas relaxed slightly, sitting back on his knees on the floor. “Do you know the story of Balaam’s ass?” 

Dean started to laugh, but at the flash in Cas’ eyes he stifled it into a crooked grin as he relaxed back onto the rug. 

“It’s in the Bible, Dean. The prophet Balaam went somewhere he knew full well he wasn’t supposed to. On a path with walls on both sides, his ass - his donkey --” (Dean stifled another snicker.) “refused to go any farther. Balaam beats the donkey and still it refuses to go. Balaam beats it again, and this time it talks to him, asking him why he would beat a creature that had been his faithful servant for so long. Balaam urges it on again, and only this time are his eyes cleared to see the angel that has been standing in the path. Balaam should have heeded the signs telling him not to do what he already knew he shouldn’t do, but he didn’t. That angel was his adversary. Balaam’s satan.” 

“Ok, so, great, the more you know, awesome. Why the fuck are you telling me this now?”

Cas sighed heavily and said nothing. 

Dean propped himself up on one elbow and stared hard at Cas’ blank face. 

“Cas.” 

“Cas.” His voice was harder, now -- not quite his “fearless leader” voice but close. 

“I think I was supposed to be your adversary, Dean.” 

Cas’ voice sounded jagged, weary, lost. 

“I think I was supposed to stand in your way.” 

“You think?” 

The air in the cabin seemed to grow heavy and thick. 

“I know.” 

They stared at each other for a moment before Dean rolled onto his back on the rug, arms and legs lax like a puppet with the strings cut.

“I know and I have known and still time after time I let your will overcome mine. Your conviction, Dean...

Do you have any idea what it’s like to stand in your way?”

Dean tried to laugh but it came out sort of choked. “Well, Cas, most people who stand in my way end up dead, so... I dunno, kind of fatal?” 

Cas chuckled softly but his eyes were suddenly suspiciously shiny. “Yes, Dean. It’s kind of fatal.” 

“Fuck, Cas.”

“Is that what you want?”

Dean flinched harder this time. 

“What... what?”

“I told you I would give you what is in my power to give you. Is... fucking... something you want?” 

Dean skittered backwards on his butt like a toddler before being stopped short by the edge of the camp bed against the wall. 

“What? Why the fuck would you say that? You can’t just offer that to people without...”

“Why not? I’ve seen you do it again, and again, and again. To women here, women all over the country when things were good. To men, when you were younger and Sam was hungry. To demons, and succubi, and angels--”

“Jesus, Cas, fine, great, so I’ve got no leg to stand on to tell you to have a little bit more self-respect--”

Cas barked out a laugh and suddenly he was crying, sobbing, like Dean accidentally hit a button or unplugged a drain or something.

Through the tears and the snot he managed to choke out “Do you think I have anything remotely resembling self-respect anymore, Dean? I’m a failure in every possible way. I failed in every mission I have been sent on since I dragged you out of Hell. I have compromised my integrity, my body, my beliefs. This body leaks and aches and burns for things it cannot have and even the substances that make it tolerable are a constant reminder of what I used to be. What, exactly, is left to respect?”

Dean gaped at him for close to a full minute before reaching out a tentative hand and patting him gingerly on the shoulder.

“It’s not... you’re not... come on, Cas, you’re...”

“What, Dean. What lies can you come up with to prop up my fragile ego this time?” he snapped, though the harshness of tone was slightly mitigated by the congestion in his head. 

“No lies, Cas, just... just c’mere.” 

WIth one hand, he pulled Cas into a loose hug, patting him awkwardly on the back. 

Cas froze for a second, before crawling into Dean’s lap and wrapping arms and legs around him in a vice grip. 

Dean sighed and let his forehead drop to Cas’s shoulder. They sat like that for five minutes, fifteen, before Cas was nudging Dean’s face up and kissing him clumsily. 

Dean pulled back. “Cas, no. Not like this.” 

Cas flinched hard and threw himself out of Dean’s lap like he’d been yanked backwards by the collar. 

His face contorted in that too-wide smile Dean was already so fucking tired of. 

“Of course not. You have your... and I’m.... no, of course. I understand.” 

“Cas.”

He continued to mutter as he gathered himself up and went back to the bottle of whatever it was they’d been drinking, starting to pour himself another cup.

“Cas. Castiel.” 

“What Dean? I got the message.”

“You got fucking nothing, because I didn’t give you a message. Just... shit, just... just come back here and let me give you a goddamn hug.” 

“I don’t think that’s wise.” 

Cas took a gulp from his tumbler.

“I’m sorry I ruined your birthday with my unwanted advances. I’m now going to drink until I forget. Leave or don’t, as you like.” 

“Jesus Christ, Cas, stop being such a fucking drama queen. I didn’t say no, and I’m not saying yes, but I am saying you’re not worthless, or at least not any more worthless than anyone else on this godforsaken planet, so get your ass back down here and let me finish my birthday hug.”

Cas put his glass down but narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 

“Why?”

“Why? Because for whatever stupid reason, I actually like you sometimes, you dumb son of a bitch, unlike everyone else I have to deal with, and I want the rest of my birthday present.” 

Before Cas could respond again, Dean lunged awkwardly to his feet and grabbed him by the shoulders. “No fucking. No more talking about fucking. No more talking about fucking, ever, unless you’re -- unless we’re both sober. So, probably never. But I am not prepared to deal with this and I don’t want to fuck anyone else up with my baggage, and you clearly have enough shit of your own without getting tangled up in me and fuck I don’t know why I’m even saying all of this shit, but I am never drinking whatever this crap is ever again and I don’t want to talk about any of it, but I’m going to hug you now and then we’re going to go to sleep and tomorrow everything will be normal or as normal as our totally terrible, fucked-up lives are. So shut. the fuck. up.” 

And he did. Dean folded him into a tight hug and Cas slowly brought his arms up to clutch at the back of Dean’s shirt like he was afraid it would be taken away again. Eventually they rearranged themselves into a weird half-sitting hug, and then finally curled up on the rug, arms and legs entwined. Every time Cas tried to open his mouth again, Dean brought a hand up and clamped it tightly over his mouth. “NN-nn. No talking. Sleep.” 

In the morning, Dean woke Cas before dawn with a gentle shake. “Hey. I’m going to get out of here before someone sees me.” When Cas stiffened, he quickly went on “No, just... I don’t want anybody else sticking their nose into what goes on between me and you. You don’t deserve that.”

“Dean, I--”

“Thanks for the birthday, drinks, Cas. I meant what I said.” 

Dean gave him another squeeze to the shoulder and was gone. 

Slowly, Cas gathered himself together and corked the bottle of not-quite-ayahuasca, shoving it into the back of a cabinet behind his moonshine and bathtub gin. Taking out his stash of dried cannabis and a pipe, and packed the pipe and sat down on the rug, groping around idly for the matches that had fallen under the bed. 

Pulling out a match, he stared at it for a moment before putting it back in the box. He gripped the pipe tightly in his fist and curled into a ball on the half of the rug where Dean had slept. He splayed his free hand on the rough material, trying to find an echo of Dean’s body heat. 

“... maybe when I’m sober.”


End file.
